Dark Passage (10 page)

CHAPTER 8

Fellsinger tilted the bottle, poured rum
into the two glasses.

“What time is it?” Parry asked.

Fellsinger glanced at his wrist watch.
“One thirty.”

“I better get going.” Parry downed the
rum.

“When will you be back?”

“I’d say around five or five thirty.”
Parry reached in his coat pocket, took out the key Fellsinger had
given him. “Got one for yourself?”

“Yes. I’ve always kept two keys, although
I don't know why.”

“Should I wake you up when I come in?”
Parry asked.

Fellsinger grinned. “Do that. I want to
see what you look like.”

“I’ll be all bandaged up. I'll be a
mess.”

“Wake me up anyway,” Fellsinger
said.

“I hate to walk out of here,” Parry said.
“I hate to go down that elevator and out on that
street.”

“You don’t need to go. You can stay here.
I'm telling you you're better off if you stay. Once you walk
out—”

“No. I’ll have to do it sooner or later
and I might as well do it now. Can you spare a pack of
cigarettes?”

“Absolutely not.” Fellsinger took a pack
from the carton, took another pack and handed the two packs to
Parry. He was up from the davenport as Parry got up from the chair.
He hit Parry on the shoulder and said, “For Christ’s sake, Vince—be
careful.”

“Careful,” Parry said. “Careful and lucky.
That’s what it's got to be. You better go to sleep now, George. You
got a day of work ahead of you tomorrow.”

“Be careful, Vince, will you?” Fellsinger
walked Parry to the door. He put his hand on the knob. He tried to
keep his hand steady but his hand shook. He said, “Be careful,
Vince.”

Parry opened the door and went down the
corridor. He pressed the elevator button and stood there waiting.
The elevator came up for him and just before he stepped in he
turned and saw Fellsinger standing beside the open door. Fellsinger
was smiling. Fellsinger was giving him a little wave of
encouragement. He smiled and waved back and entered the elevator.
As the elevator took him down he extracted the folded slip of paper
from his coat pocket. He looked at the name, Walter Coley, and the
address on Post street, and third floor—room 303. The elevator came
to a stop and Parry walked out of the apartment house, walked for
two blocks and saw a wide street that had car tracks. A streetcar
was approaching but he knew he couldn’t take a streetcar. He had to
depend on another taxi. He opened one of the cigarette packs,
realized he had no matches, put the pack back in his pocket. He
looked up and down the street and there was nothing resembling a
taxi. He walked down the wide street, telling himself that he
needed a smoke, needed it badly. He walked into a small
confectionery store. There was an old woman behind the
counter.

“A book of matches,” Parry
said.

The old woman put two books of matches on
the counter and said, “A penny. Anything else?”

“No,” Parry said. He was handling some of
the silver the taxi driver had given him. The old woman was looking
at him. He put a nickel on the counter.

“You don’t have any pennies?” the old
woman said.

He didn’t like the way she was looking at
him. She seemed to be examining his face. Then she was turning her
head slowly and her eyes were going to another part of the store
and Parry's eyes went along with her eyes, following her eyes, then
frantically leaping ahead of her eyes and getting there first,
getting to the stack of newspapers beside a candy counter, getting
to the front page and the big photograph of Vincent Parry on the
front page. Automatically he sucked in his cheeks and frowned and
tried to change the set of his face, and as the eyes of the old
woman came back to his face he made an abrupt turn and he was going
out of the store.

“You got change coming,” the old woman
said.

Parry was out of the store and walking
fast down the street. As he neared the end of the block he started
to run. He had a picture of the old woman at a telephone, a picture
of a police sergeant at the other end of the line. He ran fast, and
faster, as fast as he could go. The empty pavement went sliding
toward him, dim white in the lateness of empty night, then gave way
to black street. In the middle of the street he told himself he
ought to turn here, he ought to get off the wide street. As he
turned he saw two headlights coming at him and he heard a horn
honking and he tried to get out of the way. The horn honked again
and with the horn Parry heard the brakes fighting with momentum,
fighting with the street and trying to do something for him. Then
the automobile hit him, and as he went down under the bumper, going
around in the big circle that was a preliminary to sleep, he told
himself this the first time in his life he had ever been hit by an
automobile.

CHAPTER 9

Someone was saying, “—turned and came
right at me.”

Someone else said, “You should have full
control of your car at all times. Your speed—”

“Officer, I swear I wasn’t doing more than
twenty-five.”

“That’s what you say. Now we'll see what
he has to say. He's coming to.”

Parry raised his head, lifted himself on
his elbows. He saw the big face in front of his own face, the
shield on the cap, the bright buttons on the coat. There were other
faces surrounding the big face but he wasn’t paying attention to
them. He kept staring at the big face of the policeman.

Someone was saying, “Officer, I should
drop down dead if I was doing more than twenty-five. As true as
there’s—”

“All right, save that for later,” the
policeman said.

Parry said, “I’m all right, officer.” He
stood up. There was a pain in the back of his head. There was a
pain in his right knee. He put a hand to the back of his head and
felt the bump. He took a couple of steps forward and people were
stepping back to give him room.

The policeman had a long rounded nose and
a rounded chin. The policeman out a huge arm around Parry’s middle
and said, “Sure you're all right?”

“Perfectly sure,” Parry said, squirming
away from the policeman’s arm. “Just had the wind knocked out of
me.”

“Thank God,” someone said, and Parry
turned and saw a little man who had a bald head and a moustache
that was too big for his little face.

The policeman faced the little man and
said, “Cards.”

“Sure, officer. Right here.” The little
man tussled with a back pocket and took out a wallet. It was an
overloaded wallet and as the little man hurried to open it a
collection of cards and papers fluttered out and showered to the
street.

Parry said, “I’m all right, officer. No
damage at all.”

“He hit you, didn’t he?” the policeman
said.

The little man was on his knees, picking
up the papers and cards. The little man looked up and said, “I’m
telling you, officer, I wasn't doing more than—”

“Aw, keep quiet, will ya?” the policeman
said impatiently.” All I want from you is your cards.”

“Yes, sir,” the little man said. He went
on picking up the papers and cards.

Someone said, “Better call an
ambulance.”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Parry said.
He wondered if there was a chance to make a break. He estimated
nine people in this bunch. Out of nine maybe there were none who
could run as fast as he. Undoubtedly he could run faster than the
big policeman.

“Got any pain?” the policeman
said.

“None at all,” Parry said. “I’m perfectly
all right.”

“You sure?” the policeman said.

The little man was up with the papers and
cards, saying, “If he says he’s all right then he must be all
right.”

Turning to the little man, the policeman
said, “What are you, master of ceremonies? Let’s see those
cards.”

“Yes, sir,” the little man said. He was
extending cards. “My driver’s license, and here's my
owner's—”

“All right, I got eyes,” the policeman
said. He studied the cards. He looked at the little man.

Parry said, “It wasn’t his fault, officer.
I ran right in front of his car.”

“That’s right, officer,” the little man
said. “That's just the way it was. I was—”

“Let’s take this step by step,” the
policeman said. He pushed the cap back on his head. He looked at
Parry. “You say it wasn't his fault?”

“That’s right. It wasn't his fault at
all.”

“That’s right, officer,” the little man
said. “I was-”

“Now look, Max—policeman pushed the cap
forward again. “I’m in charge of this deal and it's going to be
handled my way. Is that clear, Max?“

“Sure, officer,” the little man said.
“You’re in charge. Anything you say goes. All I want to do
is—”

“Max,” the policeman said, “all you want
to do is keep that mouth of yours quiet so’s I can get this matter
straightened out.” He turned to Parry. “Now look, mister, are you
sure you're all right?”

Someone said, “I’d call an ambulance. If
it's a skull fracture—”

“It ain’t a skull fracture,” the little
man said loudly.

“How do you know it ain’t?” the other man
said.

The little man faced the big policeman and
gestured toward Parry. He said, “The man’s got a bump on the head
and already they got him dead and buried.”

“If it was up to me I’d get an ambulance,”
the other man said.

The policeman turned and faced the other
man. The policeman said, “It ain’t up to you. I'm in charge here,
unless you want to argue about it.”

“I’m not arguing about anything,” the
other man said aggressively.” All I say is you ought to get an
ambulance.”

The policeman took a step forward while
pointing back to Parry and saying, “Do you know that
man?”

Parry was telling himself all he had to do
was get past the policeman because there was a gap to the left of
the policeman and if he could get through the gap he would be on
his way.

The other man was saying, “No.”

“All right then,” the policeman said. “If
you don’t know him it ain't none of your business.”

“I’m a citizen,” the other man said. “I've
lived in this city for thirty-seven years.”

“I don’t care if you were one of the
founders,” the policeman said.

“I’ve got certain privileges,” the other
man said.

The policeman took another step forward.
He said, “Look, friend, it’s a late hour. Why don't you go home and
get a good night's rest?”

It got a few laughs. The man didn’t like
being laughed at. He pointed a long arm at Parry. He said, “That
man— Parry was all set to run ”—that man might have a skull
fracture. And I say it's your official duty, as a sworn servant of
the law, to protect the citizens of this city. It is your official
duty to call an ambulance.”

“I said I was all right,” Parry
said.

The policeman turned to Parry and said,
“Mister, what’s your name?”

Parry looked at the policeman. He said,
“Studebaker.”

“What’s that again?”

“Studebaker,” Parry said. “George
Studebaker.”

“Does it make any difference what his name
is?” the little man said. “If he’s not going to prefer
charges—”

“God damn it, I’m handling this,” the
policeman said.

“You’re handling it all wrong,” said the
man who had lived in San Francisco thirty-seven years.

“Now listen here, you,” the policeman
said. He pushed the cap back on his head. “You keep that up and
I’ll run you in for interfering with an officer in the performance
of his duty.”

“You won’t do anything of the sort,” the
man said. “I'm a citizen. I'm a respectable member of this
community. I've got a clean record and I own my own home. I've got
a wife and four children. I've worked in the same plant for
thirty-two years.”

“And never been late or absent,” someone
said.

“Absent once,” the man said. “I fell down
a flight of stairs and broke my left leg.”

“That’s too bad,” the policeman said.
“How's the leg now?”

It’s all right now.”

“That’s fine,” the policeman said. “That
means you can walk. So go ahead and walk.”

“Sure,” the little man said, coming up to
stand beside the policeman. “Go home already.”

“Nobody asked you,” the other man said.
“You’re just one of these wise little Jews.”

The little man was stiff for a moment,
then he bent back, like a strip of flexible steel, and sprang
forward with both fists slashing at the other man’s face, but
before he could reach the other man the policeman grabbed him. He
tried to get away from the policeman. He tried to get to the other
man and he said, “You can't talk like that any more. We don't take
it any more. We're through taking it. If my boy in the South
Pacific was here now he'd tear you apart with his bare hands. You
got to realize you can't talk like that any more. Let go of me,
officer. I won't let him get away with that. I won't let any of
them get away with that. I don't care if they're eight feet
tall-”